It hit the plexiglass windscreen of the Gazelle and passed between the pilot and copilot. Even if the pilot hadn't lost control when the windshield shattered--it was the last thing in the world he was expecting--the round slammed into the engine compartment behind them and exploded. "That looked like a hit," said Razor.
The helicopter wobbled in midair, then rolled upside down and headed for the earth.
The copilot grabbed the controls and kicked the foot pedals, trying to coax the rotors into auto-rotation. But the helicopter was already aerodynamically unstable. It crashed into the base of the mountains and exploded.
The SEALs acknowledged Magic Brown with a round of subdued golf claps, as if they were the gallery and he had just two-putted the ninth hole at Augusta. Magic turned around and grinned at his audience.
But he quickly got back behind the rifle when Razor informed them, "Two more Gazelles coming up from the valley." Magic peered through the scope. "No missiles on these, just 20-millimeter gun-packs."
"Terrific," came Jaybird's voice from the rocks. "Just 20-millimeter cannons."
"Are you starting up with those negative thoughts again?" Doc Ellsworth shouted angrily.
The rest of the SEALs actually began chuckling. Jaybird found the wisdom to remain silent.
"Everyone get some cover," Magic said helpfully. "We may end up taking a little incoming." He pressed two fresh rounds, both as long as his entire hand, into the magazine.
Murdock and Razor set up their MSG-90 rifles. Doc had left the third MSG-90 behind in the BMP, choosing to save his medical pack instead. Doc had made the right choice, but Murdock wouldn't have blamed him even if he'd left everything behind. If it came down to your ass or some gear, you had to go with your ass. No sense in losing both.
Murdock knew his MSG-90 wouldn't do much good in the present situation. He was a good shot, but unlike Magic, not a one-thousand-yard shot. Eight hundred yards was the limit of his skills. It was all in Magic's hands.
The pair of Gazelles didn't know what had happened to the first one, but their tactics were a little better. One made a run straight at the rocks where the SEALs were hiding, but zigzagging this time. The other split off and came at them up the long axis of the mountain range.
Magic decided on the Gazelle coming right at them. It was zigzagging, but in the most regular back-and-forth pattern imaginable. The French 20mm cannon had an effective range of about two thousand yards, but in the absence of the high-powered optics of the HOT system, it would have to get in closer to identify targets.
The Gazelle wasn't sure where the SEALs were. It opened fire at max range and worked bursts up the road, trying to flush them out.
Magic Brown fired.
"Miss, right," said Razor.
The cannon rounds splattered up the road.
Magic Brown fired again.
"Miss," said Razor. "Wait for it, he's going to have to stop juking once he gets on target."
The only problem with that, Murdock was thinking, was that they were the target.
Magic fired again.
The round hit the Gazelle low, and took the copilot's left leg off at the knee. It exploded behind his seat.
Despite the screams of the copilot and the arterial blood spraying around the cabin, the pilot kept control of the Gazelle and yanked it into a hard right turn, quitting the fight.
The SEALs heard the boom-boom-boom of the other cannon, and knowing what was coming, Magic grabbed his rifle and dropped beneath the cover of the rocks. The rest followed suit.
The high-explosive cannon shells exploded among the rocks like small grenades.
Just as they'd taught him in the demo pit during Hell Week, Murdock clapped his hands over his ears and kept his mouth open.
The shells would come in breaking the sound barrier, followed by the explosions, then tiny pieces of fragmentation and rock splinters singing by.
Then the Gazelle pilot did a very foolish thing. Perhaps he was overconfident, perhaps he was used to targets that didn't shoot back. Instead of standing off and pouring cannon fire into the rocks, he continued his gun run and made a high-speed pass overhead. Murdock had seen Marine Corps Cobra pilots do the same thing. Maybe the pilot planned on making a quick turn and then shooting straight down on them.
As the Gazelle passed overhead the SEALs all rose up shooting. They used the old Viet Cong technique of picking a spot in the sky ahead and letting the helicopter run into the fire.
The Gazelle shuddered and then sped off to the east, trailing smoke.
"I guess we've done our part in writing down the Syrian Air Force inventory," said Razor Roselli as he peeked up to watch the helicopter go. He patted Magic on the back. Then, from the rocks off to the side an urgent cry rang out. "Doc, over here!"
Murdock felt sick to his stomach.
36
Saturday, November 11
1639 hours North central Lebanese mountains
Doc Ellsworth leaped over the rocks, his medical pack in hand and Blake Murdock on his heels.
Razor Roselli shouted, "Everybody stay put and keep your eyes open. The Doc don't need no help. Now sound off!"
"Jaybird."
"Magic."
"DeWitt." And then the same voice. "I'm here with the Professor."
Murdock found DeWitt applying direct pressure, with his only good hand, to a wound in Higgins's side.
"I didn't see any other wounds," DeWitt said to Doc. And then "I ... I tried to get a battle dressing open, but I couldn't."
"You did just fine, sir," the Doc said soothingly. "Don't worry, Higgo, we're under control here."
Murdock stripped off Higgins's radio pack, then elevated his legs to force blood back into the upper extremities and prevent shock.
Doc cut away part of Higgins's jacket so he had room to work. "Okay, sir," he said to DeWitt. "Take your hand off."
Doc took a close look at the wound, then inserted a woman's tampon into the hole. It was a little battlefield medical trick. The tampon absorbed blood and swelled outward, sealing off the wound and effectively stopping the bleeding. The size and shape were perfect for fitting inside wounds.
Higgins was staring into the sky, blinking hard, groaning through gritted teeth, but not saying a word.
Then Doc placed a four-by-seven-inch battle dressing compress over the wound, winding the two long green gauze strips around Higgins's torso and then tying the ends together over the compress. He checked Higgins for other wounds. Finding none, the Doc listened to Higgins's chest with his stethoscope and slid on a blood pressure cuff. He gave Higgins a shot of morphine, clipping the empty syrette to his collar to keep track of the dosage. Finally, Doc started an intravenous line and hooked up a clear plastic bag of Lactated Ringer's solution. DeWitt held the IV bag up.
"No sweat, Higgo," the Doc said confidently. "You're going to be fine."
Higgins nodded. The morphine was starting to kick in.
Doc slid his nylon stretcher underneath Higgins in case they had to move fast. He covered the Professor with a green foil space blanket to keep him warm, and then wrapped the stretcher straps around the whole setup. Then he slipped away to give Murdock the score.
"It doesn't sound like the fragment's in the thoracic cavity," Doc repeated. "Lungs are clear, and thanks to Mister DeWitt he didn't lose too much blood. He's stabilized. Other than that, I'm not psychic."
"I know you'd like to get him out now," Murdock said. "Can he wait until dark?"
"He's got to," Doc replied, putting it as simply and bluntly as a SEAL corpsman could. "If he stays stable, he should be all right. But not too long after dark, okay, sir?"
"Do my best," said Murdock.
37
Saturday, November 11
1650 hours North central Lebanese mountains
"They know where we are now," Murdock said to Razor Roselli. "And I don't like that one bit, no matter how defensible the position is. Not with only five of us in fighting shape."
Razor nodded i
n agreement. "If we move two or three klicks south down this mountain range, we'll still be in a good position to dominate the road up."
"You're reading my mind again," Murdock replied.
SEAL officers did not delegate the grunt work. Murdock sent Jaybird out ahead to scout a good route. He, Razor, Magic, and Doc would carry Higgins on the stretcher. It would take all four of them to negotiate the rocks. Ed DeWitt would have to cover the rear single-handed. In more ways than one, as Razor humorously told him.
Moving two kilometers, or little over a mile, was no easy matter when you were doing it across the top of a rocky mountain range in thin high-altitude air while carrying a wounded man on a stretcher. And despite their superb physical condition, the SEALs were already exhausted. Since the early hours of the morning they had been walking and running a marathon over the Lebanese hills under almost constant enemy pressure.
The enemy pressure was the key. When SEALs did a for-real combat swim during the invasion of Panama, they found that the increased stress caused them to use up the air supply in their Draeger rebreathers at twice the rate of regular training swims.
They had been out of drinking water for some time, and were all dehydrated. There was snow on the peaks, but it had to be melted. And that took time and heat, both of which were in short supply. You could operate a long time without food, but not without water.
The air was cold and dry, which made their thirst worse. There were only the rocks for shelter from the whipping wind on the peaks. The solution was movement, fast enough to keep their body temperatures elevated and prevent hypothermia. As long as they kept moving, their relatively light dress would be no problem. As a matter of fact, light dress was a necessity since sweat-soaked clothing caused dangerous overheating and then rapid cooling. The result was a potentially fatal drop in body temperature--hypothermia.
Having been pushed to the limits of physical endurance in their selection and training, the SEALs were used to constantly monitoring their bodies and staying alert for danger signals. But what made them so formidable was the extreme outer threshold of their physical limits.
The snow was patchy, mostly accumulating among the rocks that were out of direct sunlight. Jaybird moved along gingerly.
The snow might be concealing holes or crevasses; he knew that a broken leg and one more man down would mean disaster for the whole unit. The four carrying the stretcher were careful to follow in Jaybird's footprints.
There was nothing approaching a path available to them as they trudged down the mountain range. Jaybird chose the easiest going, but all that meant was having to climb over the smallest rocks.
After the first few halting attempts, a system was developed. Murdock and Razor would take the stretcher themselves while Magic and Doc climbed up the larger rocks. Then they passed the stretcher up and climbed on their own. Occasionally they had to stop and give DeWitt a hand up.
After lifting Higgins up and over a particularly narrow boulder, Razor said smugly, "Now you know why they made you carry those rubber boats and logs around on your head during BUD/S."
Magic winked at Doc. "And all this time I thought they did that just to fuck with us."
"You hang around with Razor Roselli," Doc pronounced, "and you learn something new every day."
"Disrespectful bastards," Razor grumbled good-naturedly to Murdock. "You know, sir, that gets me to thinking. Master Chief Mac was looking for a couple of guys to give one of the gear lockers at Chocolate Mountain a fresh coat of paint. Money's tight these days. Uncle Sam can probably swing the paint, but the two guys who volunteer just might have to use their toothbrushes."
"You know the Master Chief," said Murdock, joining the act. "He wouldn't care how you did the job as long as it got done."
"This is the thanks we get for sustained superior performance in an operational environment," Magic complained.
Razor grunted as they handed Higgins up again. "Hey, Magic, you know what they say. One fuckup cancels out all those pats on the back. As a matter of fact, I'm starting to forget about those three helicopters already."
"That really hurts my feelings, Chief," Magic replied with a grin. "I'd hate to have it affect my aim the next time."
Razor accepted Murdock's hand up the rock. "That's the problem with all of us sitting down at the same table, Magic. If we eat it, you eat it."
Razor Roselli was not in the habit of relinquishing the last word. Magic and Doc grinned at each other and accepted that.
Higgins was out of it. Knowing the move wouldn't do him any good, Doc Ellsworth made sure he was well medicated. Though his fellow SEALs were doing their damnedest, Higgins was still taking jolts.
The ground rose up toward a small peak. The stretcher-bearers found Jaybird waiting for them.
"This peak blocks the way down the range," he said. "We can't go over, we've got to go around. I checked both sides, there's no ledge. The slope isn't bad but the footing's slick; only a few cracks for handholds. It's got to be single file."
"Okay," said Murdock. He thought for a few seconds. Ed DeWitt had just come up behind them.
"Okay," Murdock repeated. "Jaybird, you go first. Doc, you and Magic grab ahold of Mister DeWitt's belt and help him across. Razor and I'll watch how you go and then bring Higgins over."
DeWitt, who had been privately steaming about his helplessness, seemed on the verge of protesting. But without a better idea to offer, he didn't.
The SEALs approached the peak, which was in the shape of a dome. They were able to easily walk up to it. But then both sides of the dome extended out and down about a hundred feet. One side was sheer and the other sloped gently. Walking across the sloping side was the only way around. That in itself wouldn't be a problem, even with the chance of ice. The problem was negotiating it with the stretcher.
Like all SEAL officers, Blake Murdock was a graduate of U.S. Army Ranger School. And there, during Mountain Phase in the Chattahoochee National Forest near Dahlonega, Georgia, they taught all the tricks of moving up, over, and down rock. Especially with casualties. Unfortunately, virtually all those tricks required climbing rope, which the SEALs did not have. Oh, well, Murdock thought.
Jaybird went first. He faced the rock with both hands and boot soles pressed flat against the slope. He moved without crossing his legs. He crabbed across by stretching his right leg out, making sure of his hold, and only then bringing the left leg over beside it.
Melting water had frozen into seams of ice in the channels and cracks in the rock. Jaybird occasionally paused to break up the patches of ice with his boot.
Magic, DeWitt, and Doc followed him, except they made the move together. Magic first, his left hand grasping DeWitt's belt. Then DeWitt, his good hand on the rock for support. Then Doc, his right hand hanging onto the other side of DeWitt's belt.
Doc slipped. As he felt his leg slip off the icy rock he instantly released DeWitt's belt. As he dropped all he could do was splay his feet outward and hope the friction arrested him. He slid about twenty-five stomach-churning feet, and then stopped in a shower of ice and rock chips.
"You okay?" DeWitt called down.
"Yeah," was all Doc managed to get out.
Now that he knew Doc was all right, DeWitt said, "You're supposed to be helping me."
Doc wasn't receptive to SEAL humor just then. His face was ash gray. He slowly made his way across to one of the ice channels running down the rock. Doc took out his knife and chipped out the ice, exposing a crack in the rock about an inch and a half wide. He wedged his fingers into the crack and used it as a handhold.
Doc slowly climbed upward. Chipping with the knife, climbing, stopping, chipping some more. It wasn't fun. His hands were already abraded and bleeding from the drop. He lost two fingernails on the way up, and had to keep tucking his hands in his armpits when they became numb from the cold.
When Doc reached the level he'd dropped from, he continued on across the dome. Jaybird and Magic were waiting on the other side to pull him over.
Doc collapsed onto the ground. "If you guys don't mind, I'm going to take a little break here."
"No problem, Doc," said Jaybird. "We had a nice rest ourselves waiting for you." Then he reached around for the medical pack and got to work wrapping up Doc's hands.
On the other side of the dome Murdock and Razor were looking at each other.
"I don't know about you," said Razor. "But I didn't pick up a lot of pointers watching that."
"Well," Murdock said laconically. "We can pause here for a short moment of prayer, and then we can head across the rocks before I get any more hypothermic."
"Skip the prayer," said Razor. "God's already made up his mind what he's going to do with my ass. Besides, he's a SEAL God, he doesn't like to listen to any sniveling."
Razor Roselli was the Old Testament type, Murdock thought. "Let's go then. But if I fall you let us go. There's no way you can hold Higgins by yourself and no sense in going down with us, you understand? That's an order."
"You've been doing just fine, Boss," Razor said calmly. "Let's not ruin everything by giving orders at this stage of the game."
Murdock just shook his head and gave up. He grabbed the handles on both sides of the head of the stretcher in his left hand. He stepped off first, facing the rock with the entire weight of the front of the stretcher in that one hand.
Razor followed, holding the rear of the stretcher with his right hand.
They eased across an inch at a time. With half of Higgins's deadweight hanging on it, Murdock's arm felt like it was coming out of its socket. A bitter cold wind was whipping across the face of the rock. Murdock felt himself tensing up; his knees began to wobble. He couldn't stop to sort himself out; he and Razor had to keep moving in unison. Be cool, he kept telling himself. Take it easy.
Razor Roselli's right foot slipped. He threw his entire body flat against the rock. That and his left leg held him up; he didn't go down. To Murdock's enormous relief.
Razor regained purchase with his right foot. He pushed himself back off the rock and nodded to Murdock. They resumed their inch-at-a-time rhythm.
Seal Team Seven 04 - Direct Action Page 18